FlatLine
by SweetSinger2010
Summary: Four years before NCIS, Ziva joined Mossad for one purpose and one purpose alone: to avenge her sister's death.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I am endeavoring to make this one of the best stories that I've ever written. Ziva is my favorite NCIS character, being both enigmatic and endearing, and I want to do her justice. Her character may be more complex than even Gibbs', and it is definitely one worth analyzing. I have often wondered what the relationship was between Ziva and her late sister, Tali, given that her death obviously had a profound effect on Ziva. I'm here to provide a possible back-story and shed a different light on Ziva's character. _Please_ let me know what you think! This is an enormous, if not pretentious task, and I would greatly appreciate any tid-bits of wisdom that you have to offer! I must now state that I own no rights to NCIS. Happy reading!

Flat-Line

_Chapter 1_

"For one so skilled and intelligent, your head is _so_ empty."

A tall, slender brunette admonished gently in Hebrew, reaching to tap her younger sister's forehead. The girl brushed her hand away.

"You think about boys too, Ziva," she returned a trifle defensively, but her shapely lips turned up in a shy smile. "And _I_ think that Isaac is handsome."

"I think about _men_, Talia, not boys," she corrected quickly, disapprovingly. "You are too young for such things."

The younger girl bristled. "As are you."

Tali closed one eye and squinted against the afternoon sun as she recklessly crossed the street ahead of her sister. Ziva narrowly dodged oncoming traffic to catch up to her. Tali decided not to jerk away when her sister grabbed her arm from behind.

"I am an adult, Tali. You are not." Ziva's voice was firm.

The girls stopped in front of their favorite Mediterranean café. Tali plopped down in a metal chair and cocked her head, fixing Ziva with a glare.

"Don't put on airs," she snapped. "You're only twenty. And I _don't think_ that you were much older than me when you—"

"What makes you think that I did?" Ziva interrupted, her voice rising. Her cheeks flamed from more than just the Tel Aviv heat rising form the pavement.

"Because your face turned red like _that_ for two months every time father or Ari mentioned—"

"Alright!" Ziva cut her off again, peevish and embarrassed. She bent down to put her face on the same level as Tali's, gazing intently into her eyes.

"Do not learn from me." She spoke lowly one more word, full of meaning. "Wait."

Tali nodded slowly. Impulsively, Ziva planted a kiss in her hair before taking up the chair across from her.

"Perhaps you are not so empty-headed after all."

Tali smiled; all was well. She folded her hands under her chin. "What are you going to do now, Ziva? You…you won't be going away for a while yet, will you?" She asked the last question hesitantly. Ziva averted her gaze and tucked a loose strand of her behind her ear. "I was hoping that you'd stay home…maybe teach me a few things…before I have to consign too," Tali continued.

Ziva sighed. She had just finished serving her mandatory two years in the Israeli army and she now had several career options before her. All roads led to Mossad, and soon. She would be following in the footsteps of her father, brother, mother before her, and she felt honored to be able to serve and defend her country. Ziva was extremely talented, smart, physically capable. Her future would be bright, and she knew it. She longed for it, longed to prove herself. But when she looked at the sister to whom she was a little mother, she sometimes wished that their lives had been different. Talia, though very young, showed more raw skill than either Ziva or Ari had at the same age. So, in three or four years, sweet Tali would gladly do her duty and follow in _their_ footsteps. The idea of it made Ziva's stomach churn sickly. She, the budding assassin, felt her protective instincts flare painfully.

"I would love to," she smiled through her unease.

Tali was astute. "But?"

"I haven't made any decisions yet," Ziva hedged.

"I have heard that there is an opening on Qidon." Tali kept her eyes down, tracing patterns on the table with a slender finger.

"It is only a control officer position."

"There is no 'only' in Mossad, Ziva."

Older sister reached across the table and gently squeezed younger sister's hand. "I will wait, if you ask me to. Nothing has to be decided immediately."

Tali looked up at Ziva and grinned devilishly. "Yes, and you would be impatient every minute." She leaned back and crossed her legs casually, withdrawing her hand from her sister's. "You are always so aggressive, Ziva, except with me. Why?"

Ziva shrugged nonchalantly. "Perhaps it is because I am afraid that one day, you will retaliate and out-fight me."

"Hmm." Tali leaned forward and pretended to consider. "Hand-to-hand, it _would_ be close."

The girls laughed. But Ziva shook her head at the thought of a physical altercation with her sister, remembering frail, baby Tali. Born sickly, she was fully four years old before she began to grow and flourish. Ziva could well recall lying awake at night, fretting childishly over Tali's malaise. She doted on her from the moment of her birth, loving and protecting; especially after their mother died when Ziva was only seven. From then on, she had taken the roles of mother, sister, and best friend, doing everything in her power to provide Tali with every kind of affection and attention that a work-wedded father and grown half-brother could not; everything that Ziva, in her deepest woman's heart, had always secretly yearned for.

So when Tali said that Ziva acted differently around her than around anyone else, she was quite right. Ziva's passions and talents were with Mossad, it was true. But her heart was with Tali, and it was Tali's own constant devotion that kept Ziva from becoming the dangerous, indiscriminate Mossad operative that she had the potential to be. Tali was still naïve enough to not see the flaws in their daily familial life. Clinging to threads of childhood, she ached to see the good in everyone, even her father and brother. And so, in the blind wisdom of youth, she made herself the only barrier between Ziva and absolute bitterness; she had noticed immediately the hard, haunted look in Ziva's pretty eyes after her first Mossad "errand." If Ziva was ever vulnerable, only Tali saw. And Tali, though knowing that she had a life of servitude and dark secrecy before her—when your father was Deputy Director, there could be nothing else—she refused to allow herself or her sister to resign to the fate of cold, calculated killer, though she knew that was what they were being trained to become.

Nor could Ziva reconcile the image of a tiny sister with that of the half-grown woman before her. Tali, though twice as skilled as Ziva, was only half as driven to operate in Mossad, her guileless nature standing in the way of her expected line of work. Ziva hoped that by some miracle, Tali would find a way out and be spared the inevitable pain.

They protected each other that way, Ziva harboring Tali a little longer from their dark world, and Tali in turn often saving Ziva from herself.

"Well," the eldest spoke after several minutes of silence, sweeping the busy sidewalk café with a glance, "It looks like we're going to be here a while." She rose from the table. "I'm going to run down the street to Habib's shop to see if the knife I ordered has come in yet."

"Can I go too?" Tali asked eagerly.

"Mmmm," Ziva pressed her lips together as she considered Tali's request. "No," she answered finally, "I'd rather you didn't. Habib is a creep. I'd feel like shooting him if he looked at you."

"Oh, I _know_. But Isaac works there some afternoons," Tali explained quickly. "Habib is his uncle."

_Great_, Ziva thought as she rolled her eyes and laughed. Aloud she said, "_If_ Isaac is working, I will take you to Habib's after lunch."

Tali smiled brightly. "Deal."

"If the waiter comes, will you order for me? I shouldn't be more than fifteen minutes."

"I know what you like," she said, nodding. Ziva squeezed her shoulder affectionately and set off in the direction of Habib's shop. Turning once, she saw that Tali was sitting with her chin propped up on her hands, a dreamy smile on her round face. Ziva shook her head and kept walking, making a mental note to talk to Tali more about Isaac.

By the time Ziva left Habib's shop, which was a long, painful five minutes after she arrived there, she had begun to finger surreptitiously the small gun concealed at the small of her back. Not only had the sniveling, obnoxious man ogled her every instant she spent in his company, but he had conveniently lost her order. Her weapon had not arrived, and now Habib was demanding to see Ziva's receipt as proof of the transaction. Fine. She had it at home, and she would return later. Ziva didn't doubt that this had been Habib's intention.

"Disgusting man!" She spat between clenched teeth. Her hands balled into fists at her sides as she made her way back to the café where Tali was waiting. As Ziva walked, her pace quickened by her extreme aggravation, she began constructing a rant. Tali would find it funny. Ziva decided to revise some of the more vile points of her speech.

So wrapped up in her thoughts was she that when she barreled into a man heading the opposite way, they almost fell. He grabbed her shoulders roughly in an effort to steady them both, turning her on her feet as he kept walking in his too-quick pace. In the moment that he held her in his grasp, Ziva stared intently at him and memorized every detail of his person. 6'3", 185 pounds, muscular. Dark wash jeans, black shoes, black turtleneck sweater, black leather jacket. Oval face, pointed chin, hard-set mouth, disturbing dark eyes, short black hair, olive skin, jagged pink scar running from temple to jaw. In two seconds, she committed him to memory. He shoved her abruptly aside, and she mumbled an apology. She watched his retreating figure for just an instant. Her mind raced feverishly.

She and Tali had been crossing the street to the restaurant, arguing. Ziva remembered looking up as she weaved through traffic, seeing two men sitting at a table behind the one that Tali now occupied—the man she'd just run in to, and another, younger man who had been dressed nearly identically. Nearly. Ziva closed her eyes, concentrating. That younger man had had his hands folded in fists on the table, the knuckles white with stress. He seemed bulkier around the chest than his companion. His dark face glistened with sweat; little wonder since he, too, wore a leather jacket, and it was—

Ziva gasped, and her eyes flew open, realization hitting her like a brick wall. The man's jacket had been completely zipped up, in one hundred degree weather. It had been _completely zipped up_.

"Oh, my God," she breathed in horror. Prayer rather than profanity. She turned, and everything seemed to still around her. The noises of a busy city fell to silence and all motion became a slow blur. Ziva was standing on a street corner one block away from the restaurant, one block away from Tali. The younger girl saw her from the distance; she smiled and waved. The man in black still sat behind her.

Ziva's heart was in her throat as she ran, pushing through throngs of people to cross the street.

"Move, move!" She cried frantically. There had _never_ been so many people in Tel Aviv before! She felt like she couldn't move, couldn't draw any closer to Tali. Her legs felt leaden, each running step more difficult than the last. Her lungs burned for oxygen; she held her breath in nauseating anticipation.

Finally, finally, _finally_, she was close to the café. She could see that the expression on her sister's face had become one of deep concern. Ziva wet her lips and tried to call her name. No sound rose from her dry throat.

There was one, perfect instant in which Ziva observed everything at once. She saw a dark car pass, its driver the man she'd run in to mere moments before. He held her gaze for a nanosecond. Ziva was near enough to see a shadow cross her sister's face as she realized—as she realized. The man in black rose from his seat and stood over her, placing a hand on her shoulder. His lips moved and he bowed his head, no doubt reciting a passage of the Koran. Were Tali's eyes glistening with tears? She smiled bravely at Ziva.

Ziva could feel her heart stopping. "_Tali, Tali!_"

She didn't recognize the awful scream as her own. She moved faster than she ever had. Twenty more feet and she could pull Tali to safety. Now only eighteen more feet and—

But the distance was covered by a blinding flash of white heat and shrapnel.

A/N: And there it is, the first chapter of this work. I admit that I began to sniffle just now as I typed the last few sentences. Review, review, review! Please understand that I am an American teen, and therefore very ignorant concerning Israeli culture, Judaism, all things anti-terrorism and law enforcement, and especially Islam. I only know what I see on television, which, I know, is often inaccurate and romanticized. This is pure fiction, and far from perfect, but, goodness, I enjoy writing it! Hope to update next week! Till then,

~SweetSinger2010


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Wellll, my first chapter didn't get a whole lot of reviews, but judging by the (admittedly small) number of you that added this story to your alert lists, I think it generated a little interest! Concerning the first section of story below: I realize that the grammar and syntax may be dodgy; indulge me. I hope you enjoy chapter two, and _do_ drop a comment, if you feel so inclined. ;)

Flat-Line

_Chapter 2_

She remembered snatches of things at first.

Like peeling herself off the pavement after what—hours? minutes? Waking blanketed by a thick black cloud of smoke, pinned by twisted metal, struggling to her feet. Hearing gone, equilibrium shot. Stumbling blindly around the wreckage, her burning, streaming eyes unable to see past her hands. The tanned skin was stained and glistening with fresh blood. Her own?

_Tali's. _

Her mind screams. _That_ she can hear perfectly well, now and forever. The familiar figure of a man appeared suddenly, running, catching her in his arms as the ground swirled up to meet her.

Next: hearing everything as if she were underwater. Lying on a gurney, watching ceiling tiles blur, moving fast, too fast. Foreign sounds, foreign voices, foreign faces hovering over her own. Bright lights, needles, syringes, tubes, monitors, alarms, silence. Silence and darkness.

It felt like a dream. A sick, delirious, wretched dream. Vainly, she hoped it was. Ziva returned to consciousness slowly. Still, the crushing silence pressed on her, broken only by the ringing in her ears and the sound of her rapid, shallow breath. Everything hurt. Her head, back, chest, legs. She felt a thin band pressing against her cheeks, wrapping around the back of her head. A plastic mask rested over her nose and mouth, digging in to sensitive skin. Expending tremendous effort, she reached up to try and remove it.

A pair of warm hands wrapped around her wrists and gently pulled her feeble fingers away from her face.

"No," he remonstrated as if speaking to a child. The sound of his voice was muddy. "You need the oxygen."

Ziva's eyes finally fluttered open. She struggled to bring in to focus her brother's face. His eyes narrowed slightly, gauging her. Defiantly, she pulled a hand free. Before she had time to pull at the mask again, Ari had gripped _both_ of her hands in one of his, and with the other held the call remote.

"If you're going to be difficult, I'll have the nurse come and sedate you."

Ziva glared. Her brother's slow, deliberate drawl grated like sandpaper on her raw nerves. But she dropped her hand and her gaze submissively.

Ari sat back in the chair he'd pulled close to her bed.

"You're in the hospital," he informed her needlessly. "You suffered serious injuries."

Ziva's bleary eyes flicked to his face. He continued in his doctor-voice. "You have a severe concussion, numerous abrasions and contusions, and two cracked ribs."

Her eyebrows knit questioningly. He understood. "The oxygen was prompted by prolonged smoke inhalation and bruised lung. You…" His voice trailed off and he hesitated momentarily. "You are lucky to be alive, Ziva."

She turned her face away. Her gaze wandered over the sterile room. Though dazed and disoriented, she heard everything he wasn't saying. She heard it loud and clear. A tear fell across the bridge of her nose.

When next Ziva woke, she didn't have to struggle for consciousness as she had before. She stretched stiffly, moaning as her body protested the movement.

"Easy," Ari cautioned. He still sat beside her.

"How long have I been out of it?" Her voice was unusually deep and raspy.

"Two days. You woke a few times, but I doubt you remember."

She didn't tell him that she remembered _some_; and he didn't tell her that when she _had_ woken, it was because she'd been screaming.

Ziva looked at the IV line was taped to her right hand, the needle spearing painfully into tender flesh. With her free left hand, she felt along her face. A nasal cannula replaced the oxygen mask. She opened her mouth and inhaled deeply. Much to her dismay, the simple action triggered a violent coughing spasm. She lay clutching the sheets tightly, gasping, trying to subdue the attack. The room spun and shimmered black around the edges. Ari slipped his hand beneath her neck and helped her sit up.

"Here, drink," he instructed, holding a plastic cup to her lips. She sipped the cool liquid gratefully and collapsed onto the pillow when she finished. Her brother eased back in the chair. Ziva swallowed convulsively before trying to speak.

"Ari," she rasped. "Tell me." Her eyes pleaded with him for the truth.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, sighing heavily. She noticed for the first time that he looked utterly exhausted. "Tali is dead, Ziva." His voice was low and sorrowful.

Ziva nodded; she hadn't expected to hear anything else. Still, tears dimmed her vision. The next words were harder to force from her lips. "Wh-when is the—"

"Yesterday," Ari interrupted, knowing the rest of the question. Ziva blinked in disbelief.

_"Yesterday?"_

Slight hesitation. "Father thought it best."

"Of course he did!" She spat contemptuously, flushing. She shook her head, refusing to accept it. Her mind whirled dizzily. "You—you held her funeral _without_ me? You _let_ him?"

"There was nothing I could do," Ari said quietly. Ziva stared hard at him and for a moment saw reflected in his eyes the same pain she felt in her heart. But then he affected that sullen, listless expression and his eyes were empty to her. She hated that look—right now, she almost hated _him_. She wanted to scream and swear and say a thousand hurtful things, things that would cut him to the quick, wanted to ask him a dozen probing questions, the first being, _How could you?_

But she couldn't make her mouth form the words. She just couldn't do it. Tears gushed unbidden from the corners of her eyes.

"Get out," she choked. "Leave—right now."

He stood wordlessly, respecting both her contempt and her desire to be alone in her misery. But as Ziva watched him leave, reality hit her harder than the blast had. Her mother was gone, her sister was gone. Her father—absent. He hadn't even come to visit her in the hospital.

She and her brother didn't see eye-to-eye on much anymore; his sense of ethics was much different than hers. But they were family, and now Ari was all she had. She couldn't lose him, too.

She called out to him, and he turned from the door. A second of silent communication passed, and he was sitting on the bed. He took her in his arms and smoothed her hair as she sobbed. He whispered things in Hebrew to calm her, as if she were no more than a child again, five years old with a broken ankle. The moment was one that neither of them would ever forget.

As a rule, Ziva never cried and Ari never displayed emotion; tendencies adopted years ago, because tears and weaknesses had not been tolerated by Father, even when they were children. But they made exceptions for each other in their shared grief, thinking not of the past, or of the future. Ziva knew that the past was irrelevant, and the future uncertain. The present was all she had. _Ari_ was all she had. And that was enough.

For now.

A/N: Grrr! I know this was really short, but it's going places, I promise. Don't give up on me, 'cause it's gonna get really good! Review, review, review! Especially to give me advice as I try to write the Haswari character. I'm attempting to give him a different dimension than that of the turn-coat, homicidal maniac we saw on NCIS. I'd love your opinion!


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